Over the Bridge, We Sing of Stars and Rainbows
by PhantomInspector
Summary: AU. Javert is having issues, as usual. There's a gamin who won't stop following him, a prefect who never listens, and a whole lot of annoying people he doesn't want to deal with. And since when are there tornadoes in Paris? Parody of the Wizard of Oz.
1. A Gamin's Guide to Bugging an Inspector

I can take the time to write this because my Elementary French class was cancelled for some unknown reason. And I have really nothing better to do. Oh yeah, except doing my music theory homework.

I know this parody has been done SO many times, but I can guarentee that I dearly hope this is somehow somewhat different from anything else that's been written so far. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miz. I don't own the Wizard of Oz. Now leave me alone so I can desecrate them both.

--

Chapter 1 - The Gamin's Guide to Bugging an Inspector

It was a dull, dreary day. There had been a lot of them lately, making time pass by a good deal more slowly than usual, or necessary. Inspector Javert hated those days. There seemed so little to be going on, at least for him. He had become such a feared figure of the Law that, recently, most criminals did their best to steer clear of his notice and passing. Let other officers catch them, clap them in irons and toss them in some wet, pungent cell. Anyone but Javert. This, on the whole, made Javert's duties rather boring.

Despite Javert's bad luck in having found out plans of dangerous or even petty crooks to thwart, the Prefecture of Paris had its hands full. It seemed, however, that whenever someone of higher authority found it necessary to employ Javert in some plan to break up a plot of a particular gang, said gang found a way of wising up fast and becoming even more cautious in their schemes. This frustrated the heads of the prefecture a great deal, and soon Javert was resorted to overall harmless tasks. He was still permitted to patrol the streets, but even that was becoming rare.

This reduction of duty made Javert quite grumpy, and the unfavorable weather did not help one bit.

In the midst of this morning, however, as Javert made his usual rounds in a rather innocent part of the city, he was overcome by the strange sensation that he was being followed. Initially he dismissed it, silently claiming that it was merely his mind playing tricks on him due to this perpetual state of ennui. The idea continued to nag him, though. After resisting ever urge to look around and see if anyone was about, he did just that, promising only to do so once. The street was bare of any living souls. He shook his head, feeling he ought to be satisfied in seeing no one there. It was calm, quiet, and oh-ever-so boring.

As soon as he started walking again, the sensation came back. _It's just paranoia_, he scolded himself. _Why on earth would someone want to follow you? Everyone is trying to AVOID you, remember?_

This reminder made Javert even more sour, but it did not make the feeling go away. By the time he was out of the neighborhood and chose to return to the offices of the prefecture and report, he had turned around three more times. The third time he turned, he had only noticed a boy sitting on a bench a few feet away, struggling to tie his shoe. Ignoring this observation, he continued onward, only to be bothered once more. This time, however, he could actually hear footsteps behind him. He pressed on, pretending to be deaf to the sound, to the corner that led to the avenue of the prefecture building. Just as he made his way around the corner, he whirled around and peered back behind him. There, standing against the adjacent wall, was the boy who had been tying his shoe.

Javert's eyes widened for a moment, then they narrowed in annoyance. _Of all the bloody things . . ._

"What on earth are you doing?" he snapped.

The boy remained frozen for a moment, and Javert was certain that he would run away without giving him an answer. When he neither moved nor spoke, Javert added a rough, "Well?"

The boy finally did move, but he did not fly down the street. Instead, he took a few steps away from the wall, paused, then slowly touched his cap and made a slight bow. "Just . . . wanted to say 'good morning', M. l'Inspecteur."

Javert rolled his eyes. How stupid did this boy think he was? Before replying, he looked the child over again. He could not have been older than twelve, his clothes were terribly ragged and dirty, and the grime of the street was evident all over his young face. There was no doubt that this boy was a gamin. Javert, too, stepped out from his place of concealment and faced the boy head-on. Well, as head-on as he could, since he had to look down a good ways in order to see the lad. "Don't give me that," he growled, "you've been following me all morning. What are you up to?"

"Now, now, Inspector," cooed the gamin, "what is wrong with wanting to give a friendly hello to my favorite officer of the Law?"

The inspector scowled, not only at the boy's cheeky tone, but at the realization that there was something awfully familiar about him. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head just a bit. "Come now, out with it. Why are you following me? And don't give me that pathetic 'good morning' or 'hello' trash. I want the truth."

The boy broke eye contact with the inspector for a moment, fixing his stare on the ground as he aimlessly shifted his foot over the dirt-clogged cracks in the cobblestones. He almost seemed . . . _embarrassed_ for some reason that Javert was incapable of imagining.

The boy did not look up when he answered. "I was only wondering if . . . perhaps . . . it would not be too much trouble if I . . . well, took a stroll with you for a while."

What a bizarre request! What could have been the gamin's intention? To pickpocket the inspector? Quite unwise, for the gypsy-born officer would have been all-too-aware of the crime if it were committed against him, and he had not money whatsoever on his person.

Another possibility occurred to Javert, but even that seemed very unlikely. Considering the situation, however (he being nearly being bored to death and unable to engage in any effective anti-crime activity at all), he decided that it might not do any harm. With a quiet, bemused but decisive sigh through his large nostrils, he conceded to the boy's wishes and walked with him another few blocks, passing right by the prefecture.

Silence pervaded their stroll; it was clear that the gamin was not in this for conversation. Javert would not have entirely minded that if he had not been so curious as to the boy's real reason for wanting to walk with him. He also struggled in an attempt to place the face of the lad and possibly recall his name. After several moments of quietude, Javert finally asked, "What is your name, by the way?"

The boy did not hesitate to answer. "Gavroche." His spirits seemed a bit lifted, and after his reply he felt an irrestible impulse to whistle. Although this sound was slightly vexing to Javert's ears, it put him in a mind to recall where he had seen the boy before. Yes, he had met him before; a number of times, in fact, nabbing him for loitering and such. One time, he had caught the boy standing by the stoop of the Café Musain. He seemed to have been waiting for someone. Friends, perhaps? Or maybe . . .

Javert spoke again. "You don't happen to know any of those . . . _students_ in the Café Musain, do you?"

Gavroche looked up at the inspector. "You mean M. Enjolras and his friends? Sure, I know them, a bit. They sometimes go on little excursions to pass out food to the poor when they leave the café."

Yes, Javert remembered him now. Gavroche admired those radicals, those . . . _revolutionaries_. They were a dangerous group.

Javert had been so caught up in his thoughts that, until this moment, he had not noticed that Gavroche was often looking around and staying very close to the inspector's side. When Javert finally did notice it, a possible cause for this unprecedented desire to walk with him dawned upon him once more.

He thought that maybe Gavroche was afraid of someone, and was using Javert as a bodyguard.

While in most cases Javert would have immediately told the boy that he could not constantly watch over him in this manner, for the moment he felt a sense of gratefulness that he was finally able to serve his purpose after his superiors had tried to blot him out. He decided to confront Gavroche once more and discover if this was, in fact, the truth.

"Gavroche," he said firmly, "I would still like to know the reason for your wanting to walk with me today. Is it because you are . . . afraid of someone?"

Gavroche did not look up at the inspector; it took all his will power not to do so. Instead, his stride began to slow down, forcing Javert to slow down along with him. They finally came to a stop, with Javert's powerful stare still fixed on the gamin. "Gavroche . . ."

There was a moment's pause, then Gavroche finally said, "Well . . . you see . . . me and my family . . . we don't get along very well. Especially with my parents. I've gotten used to it, but lately . . . it's my mama, monsieur! She hates me even more than my papa does. I don't understand it. At first, she just threw me out of the house, and I was fine with that, but lately . . . lately . . . it's just so bloody strange! I'll be sleeping somewhere – anywhere – and somehow she finds me. She always has something with her, like a rolling pin or a frying pan. She starts hitting me with it, screaming at me and asking why I am such a bad child, to abandon my family when they need me, and demanding that I come home at once. She'll drag me home, and a few days later, she'll throw me out again, ordering me never to come back. Then, a day or two later, it starts all over again. Inspector, I don't know how much more I can take of it! No matter where I go, she finds me, and she beats me ruthlessly. It's just insane! No matter what I do, I can never stay more than a few days, and I land on my arse in the street. Then I'm taken back and scolded for being a deserter. It makes no sense! I think Mama has finally lost it. Or maybe she's just angry. I don't know. There's no one to help me. No one . . . except maybe you, inspector. Even if you can't _do_ anything, just being near you will keep her away. She won't act like that when the police are around, especially _you_. I won't be a bother, I promise! Please, monsieur, I'm getting more lumps than I can count! My head with be a pile of mashed potatoes before long!"

This morbid and inexplicable series of events seemed too fantastic to believe. Could the boy have been lying, just to gain attention? Uncertain of how to proceed exactly, Javert merely asked, "When was the last time this happened?"

"She threw me out of the house yesterday. I thought maybe she would be after me again today, it's not easy to tell. That's why I wanted to find you."

As far as Javert could see, there was only one way to deal with this situation. "Gavroche, your story is unbelievable. But if it's true, your mother is committing a serious offense, and she must be arrested for it." _And perhaps be put into an asylum for it_, he silently added. "This is what will happen: you will go about your business as usual, and I will go about mine. But as soon as she finds you and does this to you, you must find me right away. The best place to look would be the prefecture building. Once you find me, I will look into this matter myself. It is important, however, that you find me right away. Understand?"

Gavroche nodded vigorously.

"Good. Now, I must attend to my duties, so you run along, all right?"

"Of course, Inspector." The boy had considered adding a little comment about the importance of patrolling when there was nothing ot patrol, but he wanted to remain on Javert's good side and chose to refrain from speaking. He merely touched his cap and dashed down the street, flying off like a dirty yet happy little brown sparrow. Javert merely shook his head and walked on.

--

The next day seemed to match the last, only the weather seemed even more dark and foreboding. An uneasy feeling bubbled inside Javert as he returned from his patrol and stayed around the entrance of the prefecture. He intended to go inside and make his report (not that he really had one to give), but the state of the dark, ominous clouds hanging over the city of Paris made him stop and stare. A hurricane, perhaps? A mere thunderstorm? It was difficult to say. Whatever it was, it did not look welcoming.

It was just as Javert began to turn to go inside that he heard a sound that he at first took as a distant clap of thunder. But it was not thunder. It was the sound of a cry. A boy's cry, shouting someone's name.

Before long, he could see Gavroche running toward him, eyes wide with terror. "She's at it again, Inspector! She's brought the whole kitchen with her!"

Javert didn't waste a word. Placing a protective hand on Gavroche's shoulder, he said, "Take me to your house."

In about twenty minutes, they were there. It was more of a garret, really, so they were forced to walk up a flight of stairs before they reached the door that Gavroche claimed was the correct one. Making sure the gamin stood behind him and out of sight, Javert rapped his nightstick on the door.

The knock was soon answered by a cautious creak as the door slowly opened. A middle-aged man with a reddish face and a scraggly beard stood in the doorway. "Ah, Inspector," said the man in a voice that tried to sound casual, but gave away a hint of nervousness and surprise. "What a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you?"

"Are you Jondrette?" barked Inspector, addressing the fellow by the surname that Gavroche had given him. The man's fear grew more noticeable.

"Why, yes. There's nothing wrong, is there?"

"Is your wife at home?"

"My wife? Oh no, good sir, she is out at the the market. We are not too well off financially, but she always insists on going to market to see if there's anything that suits her fancy. You know women, monsieur, they never seem to get enough of looking at things they know they can't afford."

"Is that so? I have reason to believe that your wife is out carrying a pair of pots and a ladle. Could you explain that?"

"I know nothing about it, Inspector! Pots and a ladle, indeed! You must be mistaking her for someone else."

"I do hope I am." The comment came off too flat, but Jondrette did not seem to notice. "Is she a tall woman, broad-shoulder, large faced with red hair?"

Jondrette hesitated on this point, as if wondering how safe it was to answer either way. He could sense that it was a trick of some kind, but to which end this trick would proceed, he could not tell. "I suppose you could describe her that way . . . but, after all, beauty is often in the eye of the beholder. The way one person may see her is not necessarily how _I_ may see her. But, perhaps, she may _somewhat_ fit that description."

"Then I regret to say that that is exactly the description of the woman carrying the kitchen equipment. It has also been reported that she has been using said instruments to strike someone. Her son, specifically. Am I correct?"

"Honestly, monsieur," winced Jondrette, "I really know nothing of such things. My wife may have a bit of a temper, but I would never expect such behavior from _her_. She is really such a sensitive creature, so sensitive that she may fly at the littlest thing. But I am not aware of any habit of carrying around pots and pans, for heaven's sake, or using them to beat children. In truth, we have no son. Only two daughters, you may see them for yourself. And you should know that we love them dearly, and they would not say otherwise in the least. I am afraid, monsieur, that you have called upon the wrong home. I thank you for the call in any case, and I wish you luck in finding out the true culprit."

"Oh, but I believe I have." Then Javert stepped aside, revealing Gavroche to the older man.

Jondrette turn a darker shade of red, which was enough for Javert. Immediately after the change of color, however, Jondrette said, "And who is this young fellow? A friend of yours? Certainly not the boy you were speaking of."

Gavroche folded his arms in a manner not entirely different from that of Javert. "Hello, Father. Did you miss me?"

Jondrette appeared outrage. "This is a trick! I've never seen this boy in my life! Surely you would not try to pin the blame on an innocent man, Inspector, really!"

"I am not trying to blame an innocent man, Jondrette," replied Javert dryly. "I am trying to learn the truth. And the truth is that you are a liar, and your wife must be found and arrested."

"No! This is ridiculous! It is a lie! You've framed me! I do not know this boy!"

"Eponine! Azelma! Are you in there?" cried Gavroche.

His call was answered by a female voice, supposedly of one of the girls. "Gavroche? Is that you? What are you doing here?"

"Is it Gavroche, Papa? Let him in!"

"Shut up, you stupid girls!" roared Jondrette. Then he turned to the inspector. "Perhaps the girls know the boy, Inspector, but _I_ certainly don't! Nor does my wife! Can you not let us be?"

Javert suddenly made a step for the door, but Jondrette instantly blocked his path. "What do you think you're doing? You can't enter my home without a warrant!"

"You invited me to see your daughters, did you not? What are you afraid of, Jondrette?"

"That you will somehow blame my family and me for some crime we did not commit!"

"Let me meet your daughters."

"No, monsieur. I can't let you in. My wife . . . she won't like it."

"Why not?"

"She doesn't like visitors to call when she's not around. She needs to make sure that everything is in its proper order. A regular housekeeper, you know."

"I will only be a minute, I'm not here for tea."

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but I can't."

"Give up, Father," growled Gavroche.

"_Don't call me that!_ You're not my son!"

This last statement seemed quite genuine, and it made Gavroche grit his teeth. Javert almost thought the boy had tears in his eyes. Javert looked at Jondrette once more. "I said, step aside. That is an order."

Jondrette dropped all civilities and sneered. "Not without a warrant."

"Then you can be sure I'll get one."

"On what grounds?"

"That your wife is abusing your son."

"I have no son," Jondrette stated very firmly.

Gavroche was ready to make a reply to this statement when something caught his eye and he cried, "Oh no!"

Javert turned to a frightful spectacle. A large, imposing figure stood on the landing of the stairs, pots and ladle in hand.

"Run!" screamed Gavroche, and ran toward the other end of the hall. Javert could not imagine why, since there was no other way out of the building except through the entrance that Madame Jondrette now blocked.

"Leave . . . my husband . . . _alone!_"

Javert could hardly think before he saw the juggernaut of a woman barreling down towards him. He immediately followed Gavroche's lead and ran down the hall. It seemed to be a dead end until a section of the ceiling dropped down by a cord that Gavroche had pulled, and together they fled up the ladder and into the attic. They pulled up the ladder and closed the door just before Madame Jondrette had reached it. For the moment, they were safe.

"Quick," ordered Gavroche, "follow me."

--

"That was the most tramatizing experience of my life," grumbled Javert as he and the gamin stumbled down the street, wearied out by the pursuit. "And I've had plenty of them, believe me."

Gavroche sighed. "So, what do we do now?"

"What else?" said Javert. "We go to the prefect and tell him about the situation. This will all be resolved in no time."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

--

Wow. Again, a lot longer than I imagined. Don't worry, this is only the first chapter. It'll be much more humorous later, just give it some time.


	2. Where's Abbette When You Need Her?

Disclaimer was in the first chapter. Deal with it. :) Note: Since writing this, I have come to the understanding that Marius was not really a member of Les Amis, but I'm too lazy to make any major changes at this point. If you think it's a blatant error that must be dealt, then let me know, but if not then I'm not gonna worry about it.

--

Chapter 2 – Where's Abbette When You Need Her?

"No."

Javert could not believe his ears. "Excuse me?"

Gisquet was forced to look up from the file he was currently examining. "I said, '_No_.'"

The baffled inspector could only flap his jaw and stammer, "I . . . I don't understand."

Growing more aggravated by Javert's lack of comprehension, Gisquet slapped down the thick folder and folded his hands over it. "Then let me spell it out for you: I. Can't. Give. You. A. Warrant."

It was one of those rare moments for Javert when he was in the presence of his superiors, and for all the respect due to said superior, he wanted to scream his head off and give him a piece of his mind. It did not occur all that often, but it was happening now. "Why not?" was all he could utter through tight lips.

"Javert, do you realize how much the rate of organized crime has increased? It has sky-rocketed! Heaven knows why, but that is the situation right now. We need to devote the core of our time and energy to sorting this matter out. Any attempts to allocate our policial resources into resolving one, insignificant case will not only do very little good, but may very well hinder our progress in catching – how shall I say it? – 'the big fish.'"

"Monsieur," Javert managed to say after waiting for his temper to subside a bit, "I understand that our prefecture has had a lot on its hands lately. You must understand, though, that I examined this boy's case, and I can only conclude that it must be dealt with immediately."

"So his insane mother hits him over the head with a frying pan," responded the prefect in a careless manner. "I'm sure he can handle it."

Javert dared himself to step out of bounds just a little. "Have _you_ ever been hit over the head with a frying pan?"

Gisquet shot him a hard look. "Only in the figurative sense. Javert, the point is that I cannot start granting officers special permission to pursue cases that have no relation to the larger ones at hand. If I gave you a warrant, then word would sweep through the prefecture like a plague, and soon every officer will want some 'special' favor. It's not that your motives are not noble, but they are none the less distracting you from larger matters, and will unavoidably cause discord between myself and the other officers if I give into you on this issue. No warrants for detached cases. I'm sorry, Javert."

Not wishing to blow up in front of the prefect, Javert merely made a slight bow and marched out with a look that appeared as if he had swallowed one really bad lemon.

Gavroche had been waiting outside when Javert stormed out of the prefect's office. The lawman could not bear the look of hopefulness that had momentarily occupied the gamin's features. It was soon dispelled, however, by Javert's look of utter defeat.

"You didn't get the warrant?" Gavroche seemed more shocked than upset. He had always believed that if there was something Javert really wanted, nothing could stop him from getting it.

Javert did not want to go into a lengthy explanation about the whole thing. He merely stated, "He saw no urgency in the case; he claimed that in light of recent events surrounding the illegal activities of organized crime, cases in relation to those are of greater priority than those that are not."

Gavroche stared at him for a moment, then said, "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Inspector, but I did not understand a damn word you just said. Not one."

Anger was tempted to surface, but depression pushed it back down. "Your case isn't important enough to deal with right now."

"Oh." The gamin stood still for a moment, his eyes staring at the floor. He lifted his left foot a few times to scratch the back of his right leg. After this awkward silence, he looked up to Javert. "We're in horse manure, aren't we?"

"How delicately put," muttered Javert, although he knew that the colorful term referred more to the boy's situation than his own. Clasping his hands behind his back, Javert walked down the hall, out through the entrance of the building, and down the street with no particular destination in mind. Gavroche followed in kind.

Javert was racking his mind in an attempt to conceive of an alternative solution. Who else could he go to, if not the police? He certainly could not arrest Madame Jondrette on his own without catching her in the act. No matter how hard he tried, his mind drew a big, fat blank.

He finally addressed his companion: "Gavroche, do you know of anyone to whom we could gain advice about this issue? Anyone at all?"

Gavroche's hands were in his pockets (or maybe they were just holes in his trousers – Javert really couldn't tell) as he took his turn to think. A possibility suddenly jumped into his head. "What about Enjolras? Or maybe Marius? They're smart, they've been to university, and Marius is learning to be a lawyer and everything . . ."

"Could we _please_ refrain from taking a step in that direction? I would rather _not_ seek out the advice of any radical students. It would be an unseemly display."

The pair had not even noticed the change in their surroundings. Due to some strange turn that neither the inspector nor the street urchin was aware of having made, they had entered a decrepit, run-down neighborhood filled with homeless beggars whose empty cups eagerly awaited an action of charity. Javert still had no money on him, and Gavroche was as broke as the beggars at his feet. There was another pair, however, that was also passing through that neighborhood, and had plenty of money to hand out to the helpless poor. One member of the pair, a not-quite elderly man, was in closer proximity to the aforementioned couple than his companion, a young pretty girl whose head was too full of another individual to have ever noticed anything else. The two pairs had just passed each other when Javert said, "Can you not think of anyone else to whom we could turn for advice?" The white-haired man had heard this statement, whispered something to the girl, then turned around to catch up with the police officer and the gamin, while the lovely female continued obliviously on her way.

"Excuse me," called the white-haired gentleman, "could I be of any assistance?"

The man and boy turned around, quite surprised by this uninvited address. Javert hung back a moment, not quite sure how to react to the man's question. Gavroche, on the other hand, did not waste a minute, and immediately approached the seemingly amiable fellow and told him of his predicament.

"And now," the boy concluded, "we can't get a warrant from the police, and Javert doesn't want to talk to the students at the Café Musain. So we're completely stuck, like a pair of sticks in horse manure."

"All right, Gavroche, that's enough," Javert ordered as he approached, somewhat embarrassed by the boy's repetitive use of his favorite metaphor. (Okay, it's used as a simile here, but you get the point.)

Neither fellow noticed that the stranger had made a small jump at the mention of Javert's name, but he remained where he stood and decided to offer some advice. "Well, to start off with, I think you should have tried to retrieve the warrant first before attempting to interrogate the boy's family. With a warrant beforehand, you could have immediately gone into the apartment, searched it, and found whatever evidence was necessary to make the case. That would have made a _lot_ more sense."

Javert became irritated by this fellow's criticism of how he performed his duty. "By going to their home first, I was able to make a stronger case to the prefect."

"Not one strong enough to make him grant you a warrant, apparently."

The inspector tried not to grind his teeth. "Well, the warrant isn't even a part of the issue anymore. Whether I had attempted to gain it sooner or later, I would have received the same result: no warrant."

"You may have had a better case with a sense of immediate urgency on your side. If Gavroche had come to you, telling you of the event that unfolded, and you went to the prefect and said that you _absolutely_ needed it, due to time, he might have been more willing to give in."

"I very much doubt that," grumbled Javert, although he considered in the back of his mind that perhaps he _should_ have thought through more on the warrant-vs.-Jondrette visit decision.

"It's just common sense," stated the gentlemen in an almost patronizing manner. "You have to use your head for these sorts of things and not simply act on the impulse of the moment."

"I _do _use my head, thank you very much!" Javert was thoroughly vexed now, and wished to be on his way.

"Then _use_ it. Does not reason tell you that if you want to protect the boy, he should be put in some place of safety, maybe at your house? That way, Madame Jondrette won't be able to reach him, see?"

It was true that that option had not come into Javert's mind; this only helped to make Javert more annoyed. He growled a low, "Whatever," then took Gavroche by the shoulder and led him away. He didn't know why, but the know-it-all manner of the gentleman reminded him a good deal of a certain convict. _Wait . . ._

He spun around, but the man was gone. So Javert did thing only thing he could do in a situation like this: he threw his hat on the ground and cursed at the heavens.

--

"I want a second opinion." Javert was still busying re-molding his hat to its normal shape after having stomped on it several times.

"And that's why we should see Enjolras. He's good at this kind of stuff."

"No. We don't need some radical's help."

"Then _you_ think of someone."

"I'm _trying_!"

Once again, the lawman and the gamin had not been paying attention to where they were going, and they found that, much to Javert's dismay, they were walking quite near the Café Musain. "See? It's a sign!" cried Gavroche happily. "Let's go in."

Javert still hesitated, hoping that his steadfastness in not becoming involved with rebellious students would eventually convince Gavroche to give up. He had underestimated the boy's tenacity.

Therefore, it could be assumed that eventually, after a great deal of fussing and arguing, they found themselves inside the café.

Gavroche decided it was best not to lead Javert directly to the lair of the students, so he agreed to fetch Enjolras himself and ask him to come out and talk with Javert.

Needless to say, this proved to be quite difficult.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Gavroche returned with the blond in tow. The radical appeared to be as excited about conversing with a policeman as Javert was with conversing with a revolutionary.

"Now, remember," noted Gavroche. "You are both my friends, and you both have my best interest at heart. So, have fun!"

Gavroche took a few steps back, his eyes still fixed on the two men, before dashing off toward the back to join the rest of the group.

The officer and the student stood still and mute for a while. Neither moved, and neither shifted his glance from the fellow in front of him. Finally, unable to resist, Enjolras spoke first. "So, you're here to help Gavroche, no?"

"That is correct," Javert answered stiffly.

A smug grin spread over Enjolras' handsome face. "Not quite smart enough to think of what to do?"

"If you were in my place," replied Javert harshly, "you would understand my predicament. But since you would never understand the trials of the police, I suppose empathy from you is impossible."

"Just as your empathy for the poor and oppressed would be impossible," snorted the blond, "but I digress. Gavroche is in trouble, as I've been told. And you want me to tell you what you should do in order to solve your little problem."

Javert only nodded. He knew he could not speak to the radical for very long without his temper fluxing.

At this time, Enjolras became a bit more relaxed, and he casually began to stroll over to the bar. Turning back once, he jerked his head as an indication that Javert should follow. The inspector did so, but without putting down his guard.

Enjolras ordered two half-pints, then motioned for Javert to sit on the stool next to the one he had placed himself on. When Javert sat down, and the drinks were set before them, Enjolras decided to deliver his view on the subject. "Do you what to know my advice?"

Javert finally permitted himself to switch from stiff rigidity to sarcastic mockery. "More than anything in the world."

Enjolras returned this comment with a bitter smile, then became completely serious and spoke. "When faced with a predicament such as yours, where force is being used as an evil against the innocent, and the Law is incapable of observing justice, there is only one thing to do."

He paused to take a sip. Javert snorted at his theatrics, but he decided to humor him a bit. "And what is that, pray tell?"

Enjolras placed his mug down, wiped his mouth, then looked Javert straight in the eye. "To fight back."

Javert could only blink, the surprisingly short statement not fully sinking in. "Fight back?"

"Yes!" The student's voice had suddenly increased in volume, making Javert afraid that everyone in the café could hear him. "That woman must be put in her place! You must stand up to her. Show her no fear."

"I am _not_ afraid of her," retorted Javert. "But to face her alone would be impossible. She nearly ran me over!"

"Have some courage, man! Do you wish to disgrace both Justice and Manhood? No matter her size or her strength, nothing can stop you if you exhibit courage. That is the only weapon you need. Now go there and face her like a man!"

Javert briefly wondered if it was possible that this lad was a bit off his rocker. Then again, maybe he had never seen Madame Jondrette himself. With a discouraged sigh, Javert stood from his seat. "If this is all you have to say to me, then I suppose I should retrieve Gavroche and go."

"Oh, no, we have merely scratched the surface!" exclaimed the student. "I could go on for hours."

Javert took this as a sign to leave. He immediately went into the back before Enjolras could say another word. The very idea of a lawman encroaching upon his political territory would make any revolutionary, let alone _Enjolras_, a bit edgy. He quickly followed the inspector.

It was not all that difficult to find the correct door. As soon as Javert found the room in which Gavroche was conversing with his friends, he marched over and said, "We're going now."

"Already? That was over rather quickly." Then Gavroche's eyes grew wide. "You didn't kill him, did you?"



This notion made the other men in the room start to rise to their feet. "Of course not!" cried Javert, seizing the boy's arm and dragging him to the door, praying he could get out before the incensed radicals pounced.

He was unable to exit the room; Enjolras appeared in the doorway.

One student with a wine bottle in his hand cried out, "Enjolras! Thank God you _aren't_ dead!"

The blond gave a puzzled look at this remark, then dismissed it and fixed his glare on the inspector. "It isn't wise to barge into someone else's secret backroom without their permission. There's a reason for it being a _secret_."

"Don't start threatening me now, boy," growled Javert. "Now I'm going to give you till the count of three to get out of my way. One . . . two . . ."

"Look!" cried Gavroche.

Everyone turned toward the window to which Gavroche was pointing. There, staring through the glass, was what appeared to be a well-dressed middle-aged woman. As soon as Enjolras spotted her, he cried out in terror and ducked under the table. "Tell her I'm not here!"

Javert stared in confusion. "Who the heck is that?"

Everyone else shrugged. This was apparently a first for them, too. In the end, the answer came from below in a reluctant groan. "It's my mother."

"What?" Javert couldn't believe it. "You're afraid of your _mother_?"

The man with the bottle blinked. "Enjolras has a mother?"

"Tell her I'm very busy! Tell her I'm . . ." He paused for a moment, looking out from underneath the table. The woman at the window was still there. When she looked down and spotted the boy in hiding, she recognized him and waved excitedly.

"AAAAAAHHHHH! SHE'S SEEN ME!"

The "courageous" leader of the society known as Les Amis d'ABC nearly flipped over the table as he jumped up and bolted out the door. Everyone, including Javert and Gavroche, followed the young man to the entrance of the café, and watched him run frantically down the street.

Most of the young men simply shook their heads, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Gavroche hung his head in embarrassment and disappointment. While Javert felt an appropriate amount of sympathy for Gavroche and the ideals he had held in reference to his friend, it was all the inspector could do to keep himself from falling to the ground in a fit of laughter.

--



Yes, I am so mean. Sorry. Hooray for OOCness (not really).


	3. When All Else Fails, Sing Showtunes

Hmmm, three posts in three days? I must be sick or something. Oh yeah, I'm determined to get at least the first three chapters done so that nobody will bother me for a month. That probably won't _really_ happen, but oh well.

Disclaimer: Lemme alone.

--

Chapter 3 – When All Else Fails, Sing Showtunes

In the midst of the hullabaloo that had occurred at the end of the preceding chapter, one particular character who had witnessed a great deal of said hullabaloo but had thus far gone quite unnoticed finally decided to step forward and make his presence known.

A somewhat plump looking fellow (though we dare not call him overweight, as he has ex-convict employees to come after us), dressed in the manner of a common tramp, came up behind Javert and tapped his shoulder. "Well, well. Scaring off rebel kiddies, are we, mon ami?"

Somewhat startled, but very quick upon recognizing the voice, Javert turned around and arched an eyebrow at his colleague. "Why must you put in a word for something of which you have no knowledge?"

"I do know that you were speaking to that blond fellow for a few minutes," replied the policeman in disguise. "Then you took off near the back, with him not far on your tail. And before I got the nerve to get up and see what you were up to, the poor lad came out screaming with all of you following behind him. What exactly am I supposed to say to that?"

"Well, you certainly don't have to think that _I_ had anything to do with it?"

His friend grinned. "If I do, even while knowing that you did not, then the notion is mostly for my own amusement."

Javert twitched his nose, but was unable to make a reply before he felt a tug at his greatcoat. He looked down to see Gavroche's curiosity-fought eyes. "Who's this?"

While Javert knew that his friend preferred to remain undercover, he felt it was not a bad way of repaying his friend's impertinent comments by blowing his cover. "This is Eugene Vidocq, one of the head spies for the Surête."

Gavroche's eyes widened as they looked at the large, curly haired man. "A _spy_! Sacré bleu! I've never met a _real_ spy before, and certainly not one for the police!"

"Well, now you have," said Vidocq with a not-too-pleased tone. "Now you can return to your rebel friends and tell them all about it. And it looks like I've lost my job."

Just as he said this, the unveiled spy spotted an unidentifiable figure standing behind a nearby pillar, watching the whole thing. In a flash, Vidocq closed the distance between them and knocked the figure – now clearly a young man – to the ground.

Despite the ease in which he took the boy down, Vidocq did not have so easy a time in bringing the lad to his feet and forcing him to state his name and business. The boy did not have to do the first, for a loving friend did that for him.

"Marius?" cried Gavroche. "What on earth are _you_ up to?"

"I . . . I didn't mean it," the poor boy stammered. "I was just walking away when I caught some bits of your conversation, and . . . and I couldn't help myself, and . . . oh, please, monsieur, don't hurt me! Don't throw me in jail! Just let me be, and I'll never breathe a word."

It was after this confession/plea that Javert recognized the boy. "Wait, I know you from somewhere. You were with the students. You're one of the fellows whose leader just ran out the door, wailing like a baby!"

"He did not!" cried out Marius in defense of his friend. "It . . . it was a very manly cry, anyone could tell you that!"

"But of course," Vidocq replied casually. "Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you in jail?"

Marius stared in horror at the fellow who had him collared. "Are . . . are you really going to throw me in jail?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Indulge me, will you? Even with you boys around, things here are just too damn quiet and boring."

Javert amen-ed to that.

Marius gulped and hesitated a moment, although it did not take him two seconds to think of a good excuse. "I'm in love."

Vidocq sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I've heard that excuse used many a time before. You can't think of a better one?"

"But, monsieur," insisted Marius, "you do not understand. This girl is an _angel_, a Venus de Milo brought to life!"

"With a pair of arms, I hope," Javert couldn't help muttering.

Marius had not fully caught what the inspector had said, but he was certain it was a mockery of his beloved. "How can you poke fun at the object of a man's heart? But I suppose you only do it because I believe in the Republic, in a better and brighter future for all. You mock us now, but 

someday, people will remember our ideals and names and erect statues of us to stand for centuries to come!"

"Yes, well," replied Vidocq with a tone of thorough disinterest, "I wouldn't start posing for them now, if I were you. Just go about your way, boy. Better you were with that girl than with your friends for the present." Then he let the love-sick lad go and proceeded to exit the establishment.

It had suddenly dawned upon Javert that he had finally found someone who could help him. If anyone knew a way to solve such matters outside the normal bounds of the Law, it was Eugene Vidocq.

As Vidocq was prepared to take off on his own private errands, Javert stepped outside and called to him. "Vidocq! Wait! I need your help with something!"

Surprised by the mere idea that Javert would be asking _him_ for help, Vidocq turned around. He would not pass this up for the world. "Well, here's a first. You must be in a real fix to be asking for _my_ help. Or perhaps you have finally lost your marbles."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence," snarled Javert. However, this did not stop Javert from following through with his last-resort plan. He proceeded to explain Gavroche's and his predicament, making sure to be specific regarding his conversation with Gisquet and permitting himself to be just a tad vague with his other mishaps. After his lengthy tale was told, he awaited Vidocq's answer.

"Well," said Vidocq, "There really is only one way to deal with the matter at present: forget about it."

Javert was very nearly ready to jump on Vidocq and strangle him. "_Forget about it_?! For God's sake, Eugene, how can I _forget _about it?"

"Is that not what you would tell a subordinate of yours, if he were in your place and you in mine?"

The inspector opened his mouth to say something, but he suddenly realized that, for the first time in his life, he could not find anything to say.

"Listen," continued Vidocq, his voice now low and soothing, "you're not thinking clearly on this because you're over-wrought. You've work yourself to death with this. Just take it easy for a while. A little holiday from your duties won't be fatal. For once, Javert, do not worry about the Law. Keep the boy near you, if you'd like, but think no more of it for now. All of these issues will be resolved over time. Just stay away from the Law for a bit. That's all you need. Keep yourself away from matters of the Law."

With that, his friend walked down the street, only to soon vanish among the massing crowd of dirt-poor citizens.

--

Javert had no idea as to how he could carry out this task. _Listen to me_, he thought, _I'm thinking about it as an assignment! Since when would I ever take orders from Vidocq?!_

With his thoughts in turmoil, he quietly strolled with his hands behind his back, his chin tucked into his cravat, and a concerned gamin attempting to match his stride. They eventually found that their wandering feet had led them to the walkway along the Seine. They could see Pont Notre-Dame just ahead. They were also fortunate enough to find an abandoned bench on which to sit and rest their weary feet.

As Javert took a seat, he silently wondered, _Is there a place where such things do not exist: law, crime, prisons, police, convicts, rebels? Surely there could not be, at least not with human beings. It sounds like some lost paradise that we dream of reaching, but are incapable of grazing even a little bit. Why do we even entertain such dreams, when so much despair and hopelessness surrounds us? What is the point?_

While Javert's head was overflowing with such thoughts, Gavroche was not thinking of anything in particular. He made some minor observations of their surroundings: the boats in the river, the ropes, oars, and all water-born equipment that were necessary. He found himself simply staring at the water, watching the rise of each slight swell that passed their way. It was too dark to see if there was anything _in_ the water. He merely looked at the tiny crests that hardly ever foamed, slowly rolling by . . .

"I'm bored. Will you sing to me?"

It took Javert several moments to realize that the gamin was addressing this question to _him_. He abruptly turned to the boy. "No! I don't sing."

"You should," stated Gavroche. "It would make you less grumpy. Don't you know any songs? Maybe from your childhood?"

This was really not the best time for Javert to be reminded of his childhood. That was when many of his most painful experiences began. Still, he did recall that when he was very young, still living within the confines of his mother's prison cell, she would sing some tunes that were both strange and comforting. Just as Javert looked up at the dark, angry sky, there was a small break in the clouds, which permitted the sun to shine through. And there, ever so faint, was the trace of a rainbow. Javert was unable to see the whole thing, since its curve descended behind the Pont Notre-Dame further down the way.

"Well . . . I do remember _one_ song my mother used to sing. Just give me a moment . . ."

It took him a while to recall the melody and the majority of the words. As Javert softly hummed/sang the ditty, he was forced to make up some of the notes and words along the way. It 

was basically about how somewhere over some unspecified rainbow, there was a magical land that could only be reached through one's songs and dreams. There was also something about wishing on star, and how it made no difference who you were . . . no, Javert thought, maybe that was another song. Then there was something about lemon drops over chimney tops, where you'd find the person that had wished on the star. Then it went back to the rainbow and talked about blue birds flying over it, and why he couldn't fly over the rainbow like them. Overall, it was a rather ridiculous song, but Javert managed to pull it off in not too shabby a fashion.

After a slightly awkward pause, Gavroche said, "Not bad. I like my politically-based songs a bit better, but that was pretty good, too. And you have a nice voice."

Despite every intention not to do so, Javert could feel his face turning a bit red. "Well, um, thank you . . . please never mention this to anyone else."

Gavroche made a zipper motion across his mouth. "Lips are sealed."

--

Afternoon was on the verge of turning into evening when Javert decided to check back at the prefecture offices, just to see if there was _anything_ for him to do. He knew the venture would probably be fruitless, but it didn't hurt to try.

As usual, Gavroche continued to follow him. It was less out of necessity and more out of habit. Javert realized that despite what they had been through together, this little routine would eventually have to stop.

The pair entered the building and made their way to the prefect's office, with Javert doing his best not to notice the perturbed and mocking glances of his colleagues. He only felt relief when he reached the door of the office and placed his hand on the knob. At least he would have a moment's reprieve before returning to the merciless gaze of the other lawmen.

His relief was soon done away with when he opened the door and saw who was inside. M. Gisquet was standing behind his desk with Vidocq standing on one side, and Madame Jondrette on the other.

Javert remained frozen for a moment. He prayed to God that Gavroche would not begin asking questions and attempting to make his way into the room.

Apparently, his prayer was recorded on the heavenly answering machine.

"Javert? What is it? Is something wrong?" Before Javert could move, the young urchin had poked his head in under Javert's left arm. His eyes immediately meet the gaze of his mother's. He screamed and ducked behind Javert.

"Oh, my boy!" cried Madame Jondrette. "I have been worried sick about you! Why do you hide from me? Come out and say hello to your mother."

Javert noticed by this time that the lady before him had abandoned her kitchen wares and was playing the role of concerned, loving mother. He could sense in that moment that he and Gavroche would not win this argument.

"Monsieur le Prefect," declared Javert in his most professional manner. "This is the woman of whom I spoke to you earlier today. This is the woman who has been beating her son."

Mortified indignation and horror appeared over Mme. Jondrette's broad features. "Oh, monsieur!" she cried, turning back towards Gisquet, "Is this not what I was speaking to you about just a minute ago? My son . . . my poor (sob), unfortunate little boy has turned into a horrid liar, and has now duped this esteemed officer into believing his horrific tales! Do you see what distress I am put through by this child, night and day? I want to take him home, monsieur, and do my best to improve him, but he somehow always manages to escape. Oh, monsieur, he breaks my heart! It is too much!" She gave the perfect touch to her scene by falling to her knees in a state of relentless weeping.

The inspector's disbelieving glance moved toward Vidocq, then to the prefect. He knew his friend would see through this ruse in a heartbeat. But what of Gisquet?

It was difficult to say whether Gisquet believed this woman's story or not. He merely looked back at Javert and stated plainly, "She came to my office half an hour ago, declaring her son had run away and that she had been searching for him for most of the day. Now that her son is back, I feel it is our duty to hand him over to her."

Javert remained fixed on the spot. "No," he said firmly.

Gisquet's eyes widened in surprise. This had never happened before. He certainly might have expected such insubordination from other officers, but not _Javert_. Vidocq seemed capable of believing it more, due to what he had witnessed only a few hours ago. He could not, however, be of any help to his friend. "Javert," said Vidocq in lieu of an answer from Gisquet, "we really have no choice. By law, that boy belongs to Mme. Jondrette. If she wishes to take him home, then we must abide by her wish."

Javert felt anger and frustration filling his chest and creeping up his throat. He looked to Gisquet. "Monsieur, I told you of her earlier—"

"By her account, Javert," noted Gisquet, "her son has been playing you a fool, or anyone to whom he tells his story about any actions of cruelty performed by her."

"You cannot believe it!"

"We cannot necessarily believe the boy either. We cannot deal with the matter at present. The law requires that the boy Gavroche be returned to Mme. Jondrette. Now, Javert, if you would please oblige."

Javert could not move by or against his will. He was trapped in a hard place. On the one hand, as a guardian and protector of the innocent from crime, he needed to protect Gavroche. On the other hand, standing to protect Gavroche would be acting in violation of the Law. Even if the prefect had the tolerance not to fire him, Javert knew that he could not live with a conscience burdened by such guilt. There was no way to act that did not betray a part of himself, of what he believed.

Vidocq suddenly stepped forward. "Here," he said gently, "allow me."

Then he took Gavroche by the arm, who did everything he could to escape, and handed him over into the iron-grip of his "loving" mother.

Gavroche turned to Javert, his eyes wide with panic and fear. "No! Javert, please! Please, you have to help me!"

"That's enough, dear," scolded Mme. Jondrette, trying to sound as gentle as possible while still maintaining a tone of threat that only Gavroche and Javert could clearly detect. Without any movement on the part of the lawmen, Mme. Jondrette dragged her offspring out of the room as he still cried out for help.

Javert could not bear it. As soon as Gavroche's cries were out of earshot, he stormed out of the office without a word, slamming the door behind him. In the next instant, Vidocq turned to Gisquet, his eyes glowing with fury. "I hope you're pleased with yourself."

Gisquet roughly replied, "Only as much as you are."

Without another word, Vidocq excused himself from the prefect's presence, and then he too left in a huff. Despite his efforts to remain unaffected by the situation, Gisquet found himself unable to focus on the latest reports regarding Patron-Minette.

--

Oooh, drama. Almost at the Oz part, but not quite there.


	4. Merde, C'est Une Tornade!

Yes, I am updating my silly parody before my serious one, cuz I need to put some more thought into the serious one. And not only have I posted a new chapter, but I've updated my previous ones, so yay! By the way, I have no idea where Javert actually lives, so I'm borrowing the street from the main Javert forum on this site. :) Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: (punches palm with fist)

--

Chapter 4 – Merde, C'est Une Tornade!

The increasingly sinister weather did well in mirroring Javert's dark mood. Like an angst-fraught teen, he felt an immense, temporary hatred toward everything. He hated the Jondrettes, the students, the Prefect, Vidocq, that man that reminded him of and probably was Jean Valjean (judging by his current state of luck), the crowds that delayed his homeward walk, the bloody sky that made him even more bitter, and most especially himself. He hated indecisiveness in both others and himself. Indecisiveness was equivalent to weakness, an inability to act upon one's convictions. That angered him above all things.

Now he did not know what to feel worse about: that his inaction had caused Gavroche to be reclaimed by that horrid circumstance of abuse, or that his inaction indicated some doubt of the Law's absolute correctness. Had he let himself become too invested in this one particular case, just as (according to Gisquet) he was a little too obsessive about that one convict to whom hardly anyone else paid attention anymore?

_Maybe Vidocq's right_, thought the inspector ruefully. _Maybe I do need a vacation from all this. But this is my life, after all. Is there really anything beyond the Law for me?_

It was well into the night before Javert reached his flat on Rue Sainte-Anne. There were three flights to ascend, and considering how worn out he already was from the events of the day, he was understandably eager to drop into bed and achieve whatever amount of sleep he could. Even on the verge of utter exhaustion, the fatigued inspector took the time to hang his greatcoat on the rack, neatly fold and droop his waistcoat on the back of his desk chair, and remove his boots and place them at the foot of his bed perfectly side-by-side. Then, without further ceremony, he plopped onto the bedsheets.

His anxiety and guilt made his sleep fitful, and he occassionally woke up with a start, hardly knowing what time or day it was. He made every effort to calm himself and remove all thoughts of angry female juggernauts and frightened gamins pleading for his help from his restless mind. Nearly every time he closed his eyes, however, he thought he could here Gavroche's voice calling for him.

_It's official: I NEED a holiday_.

It was early in the morning when Javert heard a sound that, for once, was not caused by his wound-up brain.

In his somewhat spacious but still modest quarters, there was a fireplace in the wall opposite the bed, which was useful in the cold months. But being a warm night in late spring, there was no need for a fire, although there was still a good amount of ash that the chambermaid had neglected to clean out.

For the third time that morning, Javert was struggling through another unpleasant dream of giantesses and vicious storms and all types of fantastic chimeras and visions, when a loud _crash_ made his eyes open. He sat up quickly and observed a cloud of disturbed ashes emerging from the unused hearth.

"What in God's name . . .!"

He heard a fit of coughing come from the belly of the absess before a cheerful voice called out, "Inspector! It's me!"

Javert got up and approached the fireplace with some caution, although he was quite certain he knew who had landed in the ashes. "Gavroche? What on earth . . . what are you doing here?"

"What do you think? I came to see you!"

Javert demonstrated another eye-roll. "My apologies, I thought you had decided to become Pere Noel and were practicing on my chimney."

"Ah, Inspector," replied the gamin with a soot-caked grin, "even in the wee hours of the morning, you are never without your sense of humor."

"Thank God," Javert grumbled while offering the boy a hand. "Now get out of there before you die from asphyxia."

"From what?"

"Nevermind."

Despite his disbelief at Gavroche's appearance, Javert knew he could wait to know the details until after the gamin cleaned himself up. He took a casual note of the soot tracks the boy left on the floor while heading toward the bathroom. It only served that lazy maid right.

"Now," began Javert after Gavroche had washed, the inspector had changed into fresh clothes, and both were sitting opposite each other – the lad in a chair and the older man on the bed – "how did you escape from your parents and find me here?"

"Oh, well, it was nothing, really," answered Gavroche coolly. "Mama gave me her usual earful, and Papa had his own to give regarding my bringing a _cogne_ to their home and being a dirty snitch. 

Then, when we all went to bed, it suddenly occurred to me that rather than wait for Mama to batter me to a pulp and throw me back onto the street, I could just get away while everyone was asleep. Good thing Mama sleeps pretty heavily and doesn't take the kitchen to bed with her.

"As for your address, I just asked the other fellows around—"

"Fellows like you, you mean?" interrupted Javert.

"Right. Finally one of 'em told me that a man that looked like you walked into here really late last night, so I figured you were lodging here."

"Then how'd you know which room was mine? And how on earth did you get on the _roof_?"

"Some painter left up his ladder a few doors down, and the buildings are so close together that I could jump from one to the other no problem. As to the right chimney . . . well, I just guessed, really. Boy, wouldn't _that_ have been embarrassing if I had landed in the wrong room? Haha!"

"That is . . . quite unbelievable."

"I know! Pretty lucky, huh?"

"Unfortunately," broke in Javert, "luck isn't going to guarantee your continued safety. Technically, as an officer of the Law, I'm supposed to return you to her. If I don't, your mother could claim that I kidnapped you." He groaned deeply. "What a nice fix."

"But you _won't _hand me over to her, will you?" Gavroche's eyes grew large with fear and pleading.

Javert pressed his lips in thought. "Well . . ."

The wheels began to turn within his head. What was the one place where a person may be untouched, even by the Law? If only there were such a sanctuary . . . just until Javert could address the Prefect again and set this business aright . . .

The lightbulb finally went off – well, the 19th-century version of a lightbulb, which would probably be a gas lamp or something. "Of course! Why had I not thought of it sooner? Come, we had best hurry."

For once, Gavroche was not able to put in a word or form a question before the inspector had them walking out the door and half-strolling, half-jogging down the street.

Javert had thought it best not to waste time explaining to the boy his idea or where they were going. (Besides, it's nice to keep the readers in suspense.) They wound through the cobbled streets, eventually coming within sight of the Seine and le Pont Notre-Dame. The figurative lightbulb – or gas lamp – in Gavroche's head did not go off until they had crossed the bridge and approached the impressive façade of Notre-Dame de Paris.

The gamin gasped in realization. "Of course!" He looked up at his companion. "Inspector, you're brilliant!"

Although he felt himself beam a little at the boy's compliment, Javert knew that he ought to feel at least a little guilty about hiding his friend . . . well, in the broadest sense . . . from the Law, he who believed that the Law was always right. Then again, it wasn't that the Law was wrong in this case, exactly, but justice was certainly being obstructed by these other problems caused by the criminal community.

_See? _Javert reassured himself. _It always comes back to the criminals._

Javert returned to reality in time to see the doors swing open and behold a splendid view that was the cathedral's interior. (Unfortunately, due to the late time at which the author is writing this chapter, she shall not go into futher Hugo-esque detail about said interior.)

To the great fortune of the policeman and the gamin, there was a man of the cloth tending to some task at the altar. They eagerly approached the sanctuary.

"Pardon me, monsigneur," said Javert with all politeness, "but there is a matter that I wish to discuss with you. We are in great need of your assistance."

The robed man looked up with a congenial smile. "You are, are you? Then by all means, I am at your service. And what may your name be, my friend?"

"I am Inspector Javert, First Class, and my companion here is Gavroche Jondrette. It is he who comes to seek your help."

Casting a benign glance over the boy, the man in papal attire descended from the altar to join the two aid-seekers. "I think I must inform you first, my children, that I am in fact only a visitor in this splendid hall of worship. I came here from Digne, at the request of some official whose name I am unable to recall, regretfully. You may call me Monsigneur Bienvenu."

Javert's widened in both recognition and disbelief. "Monsigneur Bien– . . . wait a minute . . ."

Then he turned away from the clergyman and the street urchin, looked up toward the ceiling and . . . uh-oh . . .

"What do you think you're doing?! Bishop Bienvenu is supposed to be _dead!_"

JAVERT!! NO BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL!

"Umm," interrupted Gavroche, "how exactly do you know about that?"

Javert looked at him. "About what? Bienvenu or the fact that we're in a mediocre fanfic?"

Hey!

"Both, I suppose," replied Gavroche unsurely.

"I can't really answer to the second. It's the author's own doing that I am breaking the fourth wall, which makes her yelling at me utterly irrational. As to Bienvenu . . . well, I guess I can't answer that either. Again, it's the author's fault. Authors and criminals! They cause nothing but trouble!"

You wouldn't even exist if those two didn't! So stop griping!

"Pardon me," broke in the bewildered bishop, "but do you still wish for my assistance?"

Javert grumbled something under his breath along the lines of, "You will regret this," (but you never know) and stiffly turned back to Bienvenu. "That would seem to be the case."

"Then tell me of your ordeal."

So for the fifth time in twenty-four hours, Javert and Gavroche took turns explaining the entire plot of this story up until this point. Javert worried for a while that due to the length of their tale and the age of the should-have-been-deceased bishop, he and his companion would put said bishop to sleep. The robed sage, however, was sharp as a politician half his age, and imbibed the story without a yawn. (Never underestimate the power of the elderly.)

"This is most fascinating indeed!" smiled Bienvenu when the pair had finally finished. "So now you wish to keep the boy here until the matter can be settled."

"Exactly," answered Javert with a grateful sigh that left him nearly deflated with relief. "So, do we have an arrangement?"

The bishop had been kind enough to lead Javert and Gavroche to a confessional where they would have plenty of privacy. He now leaned back in his seat for a moment and gave this some thought. The delay in the clergyman's response made Javert uneasy again. What was there to think about? Surely the bishop could not have any scruple against protecting the child. Or perhaps he was considering the fact that he was only a guest, and that arrangements for the boy's stay would have to be approved by the archdeacon or someone (Javert was not very well acquainted with the hierarchy of holy orders). At last, when the inspector's confidence in this seemingly foolproof plan began to falter, the bishop spoke. "M. l'Inspecteur, there is no doubt in my mind that you are very concerned about the boy's well-being."

"I'm glad you understand that, monsigneur," Javert responded reverently.

"I am also certain that you are a hardworking, conscientious man who is deeply devoted to his duty."

"Thank you again, monsigneur."

"Your soul, however, seems quite troubled by the problem that you face, such a violent internal conflict I have rarely seen in another man."

"Precisely, monsigneur, which is why we have come to you for help."

The bishop paused again. Javert was not certain how much of this he could endure. He would have to resume his duties at some point today, and the sooner he could go, the better.

When the bishop spoke again, it was the last thing the policeman had expected to hear. "How is your relationship with your mother?"

Javert nearly fell out of his seat. "My _mother_?"

"Yes. Have you had a bad falling out?"

He gulped quietly and replied, "Well, if that's what you would call her giving birth to me in a prison cell, dragging from town to town for the first ten years of my life, abandoning me on the steps of the same prison I was born in, and being a cheating fortune-teller and whore at the same time, which thus resulted in my promising to return her to that same prison should she ever break her parole, then yes, we've had a bit of a falling out."

"That sounds like a painful experience, my son. And forgiveness of such trangressions can be as difficult as enduring them. But it is possible."

Javert blinked a few times at this odd turn of conversation, then said, "Forgive me, monsigneur, but I don't really see what any of this has to do with Gavroche's situation."

The bishop nodded. "It is true that it doesn't have a direct affect on him, but it could help you see what you must do."

"What?! I already know what I'm going to do! I'm leaving him here, where he will be safe until I can ask the prefect again for a warrant."

"Is that really what's going on?"

"YES!"

An unnerving smile crossed the bishop's soft, wrinkled face, which was made more unnerving by being viewed through a metal screen. "I think, my son, that you know that his staying here isn't the solution. Moreover, I think you do know what _is_ the solution. You are simply afraid to admit it."

"THAT DOES IT!"

With a forcefulness that would have made the hardest criminals shudder, Javert kicked open the door of the confessional, crossed over to the opposite box, extracted Gavroche without a word, 

and began to walk out. The bishop calmly emerged from the middle booth. "You will not have him stay, then?"

Javert glanced back with burning eyes. "That seems out of the question, don't you think? That is, if you think it's not the solution." It took all his will to not utter a few curse words in the midst of his last sentence.

"Never you fear, my children," called out the bishop good-naturedly, "God likes to reveal the answers to our troubles in unexpected ways. Take heart, and godspeed."

Too enraged to speak, Javert merely fixed his eyes on the double-doors and dragged the street urchin behind him. Gavroche, with legs too short to keep up with the inspector's now speedy stride, was resigned to be towed along the floor while his mind tried to wrap itself around all that he had heard and witnessed.

_Bad relationship with his mother? Hmm, that IS interesting . . ._

_--_

The wind began kicking into overdrive when Javert and Gavroche had crossed the same stone bridge. It did not help that the water, which was rough in that patch anyway, what now growling and splashing violently just under the bridge's girth.

"Not to put you on the spot, Inspector," piped up the gamin, "but in wind such as this, maybe we _would_ have been better off staying in the cathedral. It's hundreds of years old, as I recall, and made of stone, so it's got to be steadier than that flimsy garret of yours, or even the prefecture."

"Gavroche," Javert yelled, both from vexation and to be heard over the wind, "for just a few minutes, would you refrain from putting in your two centimes? I need to think."

"Sorry," grumbled the boy, "no need to be sore. Where are we headed now?"

"Back to the prefecture," answered Javert, his mood growing darker with the sky. "I have to report for duty."

"What about me? You said so yourself that if my mother sees us, she'll say that you kidnapped me!"

"I don't know what to do with you, kid! That's what I'm trying to –"

The pair had hardly acknowledged the terrified air of people all about them until one fellow, a butcher who was running towards his shop to batten things down, approached them and said, "You two blokes better run for cover! It's a tornado!"

Gavroche looked up at Javert, once more confused. "Tornado?"

"It's a giant funnel of wind," Javert explained, "although I can't believe that there would be one in Paris."

"Well, you better believe it!" the shopkeeper cried, then resumed his sprint down the street.

Javert took half a minute to contemplate. "I think the prefecture has a cellar purposefully built for such emergencies. It's the best place we can go for protection."

"But what about the prefect?"

"I'm not going to worry about him right now! Let's just go!"

Gavroche's urge to argue decreased as the wind blew louder and louder around his ears. He became somewhat afraid (just somewhat) that the wind might pick him up off the ground, so head held tightly to Javert's coat while Javert held tightly to the boy's wrist.

By the time the pair reached the prefecture, everyone else in the neighborhood seemed to have safely retreated into their homes. Javert was afraid for a moment that the door to the prefecture would be locked, but by some stroke of luck, it had been neglected by the authorities. The two rushed inside, slammed the door shut, and began to look around frantically for some way to the lower levels.

It soon hit Javert that if he had to keep dragging Gavroche around like this, they might not find the cellar door in time. His eyes quickly scanned the room. The desks were still covered in papers and inkbottles, but the room was utterly deserted except for the two of them. Thinking as rapidly as possible, Javert grabbed Gavroche by the shoulders and shoved him into a nearby desk chair. "Don't move," he said sternly. "I'll be back soon."

Javert hunted the entire ground floor for the correct door, and after passing it two or three times, he finally realized that the one with the impressive bolt had to be the one. He grabbed the door's handle, but it was locked. He shook and pounded and yelled with all his might, but after minutes of waiting, there was no response to show for it. He cursed under his breath at the luck.

_Must have all bundled up at the first sign of it. Wait! Maybe there's a bulkhead somewhere along the building's perimeter. It's a bit of a long shot, but what else is there to lose?_

The long-legged lawman dashed back to the main hall, only to find that the chair designated as Gavroche's waiting spot was empty. This time Javert cursed aloud and called the boy in no soft tones.

"Gavroche! Dammit, boy, you better come back here if you know what's good for you!"

He searched around the ground level and found nothing, so he sprinted up the large staircase to the second floor, unable to comprehend why the boy would have thought of going up there at all. Room after empty room, Javert searched in vain, and his nerves were nearly pushed to their limit when he glanced into one of the conference rooms and found the urchin standing near a large, double-sash casement window, nose and hands pressed up against the glass.

"Gavroche! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

The boy whirled around half-startled, half-relieved. "Sorry, Inspector, but you were gone for so long, and so I thought that maybe you went to have a look outside. I'm glad you didn't, though, it looks really bad out there. And I think this window –"

"Enough! Even just the ground floor would be better than being up here! Now come on before you get hurt!"

However, the inspector had grown too anxious and impatient to wait for Gavroche to come to him on his own accord, so as he spoke, he approached the boy, roughly grabbed his shoulder, and began to lead him away. But in the midst of grabbing him, Javert carelessly knocked a hard shoulder against the window pane. Had he allowed Gavroche to finish speaking, he might have realized that the latch of the same window was nearly ready to fall off, and any rough knock as it just received would have been enough to render the old latch officially useless.

Javert and Gavroche had only gone a few steps when a particularly powerful gale whipped against that side of the building, and not only did it fling open the window, but it completely ripped off one of the sashes.

"Javert! Look out!" Gavroche screamed.

Javert barely turned his head when he felt something hard whack him on the back of his skull. Next he was aware of himself falling to the floor very quickly, and another indistinguishable cry from Gavroche. Then there was nothing.

--

I'm gonna work like the dickens to get a few more chapters up this week. Also, I tried to find an argot term for cop, but I only found "flic" which may or may not be just a modern slang word. UPDATE: LesMisLoony has enlightened me on the issue. Thank you! :)


	5. Quoi?

Yup, here we go. Finally. This is where this fic actually becomes recognizable as a WoO parody. My undying thanks to the reviewers who showed that they actually cared about this fic. :)

Disclaimer: Release the hounds.

--

Chapter 5 – Quoi?

At first, nothing but a dull roar filled Javert's ears. He couldn't even discern its source, only that it helped to aggravate the pain that burned throughout his cerebral cavity. On the bright side, the room was cast in a gloomy gray that made it easy on the eyes. He let his eyelids flutter open and shut, testing to see how much coming to would worsen the headache. Before he felt prepared, though, another sound entered his ears.

"Inspector? Inspector, are you awake?"

He didn't answer immediately, wondering if his silence would deter the boy's inquiry. It seemed to work briefly, but when he began to open his eyes again, the voice came back. "Come on, Inspector, don't pretend you're not awake. Please? I just want to know if you're all right."

With an unhappy groan, Javert let his eyes open all the way. He was rewarded with a pair of glistening, muddy brown eyes and the goofiest grin a boy of ten or eleven years could muster without immediately bursting into laughter. All about half an inch from his face.

"Get away from me!"

Gavroche jumped back a few feet to avoid any immediate thrashings. "Sorry, Inspector, I couldn't resist. Besides, many people would pay to wake up to a child's adoring face."

"Oh, really? Then go find one."

The gamin's grin dropped into an uneasy frown. "That won't be so easy as you think."

"Why?"

"Look for yourself."

Javert saw that Gavroche was inclining his head toward the window, the one which was now devoid of both its sashes. He had been resting in a chair, but that became irrelevant as he carefully stood and approached the window. Perhaps it was still his head playing games with him, but somehow the floor felt . . . odd. It did not want to stay under his feet, but to shift around in a subtle but nevertheless irksome fashion. Javert extended his arms and at last clutched the sill. He had a difficult time focusing at first; the outside looked like nothing except a swirling mass of brown and dark gray. _I must have been hit harder than I thought_, he reasoned while rubbing his eyes and shaking his head several times. After a while, he was forced to come to the conclusion that his eyes were just fine; the entire building was surrounded by wind, dirt, and debris.

The recently revived man needed another moment to pull the facts together. Tornado . . . prefecture . . . swirling wind . . . uneven floor . . .

"Gavroche," he began slowly, "how long have I been out?"

"I'd say quite some time," replied the boy candidly.

"Did anything odd happen while I was unconscious?"

"Well, I suppose, although I couldn't really explain it to you. That big mass out there pretty much settled in just minutes after that window hit you smack in the head. Then there was a bit of a strange rocking going on, but I figured that was just from all the wind. I told you the cathedral would have been better than this place."

Javert, for the second time that day, gave a dry gulp. "You may be more right than you know."

Gavroche wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. "How's that?"

The inspector waited another minute, just to be sure that he comprehended the situation correctly. He stared out the window for a time, then turned to Gavroche. His face was unusually pale, which made the gamin afraid that his friend would collapse again.

"Gavroche," Javert said, "I . . . don't think we're . . . on the ground . . . anymore."

Gavroche didn't dare to breathe, only to gasp, "What?"

"I think we . . . this building . . . is inside the tornado . . . in the air."

The boy's mouth hung open for several seconds, then stammered, "W-we're i-in the . . . air? Y-you mean . . . _flying_?"

"Now, now," Javert quickly replied, taking a step toward the boy, "there's no need to be frightened or fall into hysterics. If we simply remain calm . . ."

"Frightened? _Frightened_?" Gavroche let out an incredulous scoff with each repetition of the word. "You think I'm _frightened_? This . . . this . . . _this is the best day of my life!_"

It was Javert's turn to gawk in confusion. "What?"

"Who has never dreamed of being able to fly?! You yourself asked why you couldn't fly like the birds in that little ditty of yours!"

Javert immediately shushed him. "I told you not to bring that up again!"

"Who's gonna hear? If all your chums were in the cellar, underground, it's not likely they would be up here with us." The gamin, now beaming with sheer enthrallment, rushed to the window beside Javert and leaned out slightly. "I can't believe we're _flying_!"

"Be careful!" the older man snapped as he instinctively yanked the boy away from the sill. "You want to fall out?"

"Do you think I would fall directly to the ground, or would I ride on the wind for a while?" The boy's fearless curiosity and wonderment startled the policeman. "Oh, I wish I could find out."

"And risk ending up like a tomato thrown into a bad actor's face? Not under my watch."

The gamin seemed content to shrug it off and to stare outside. "Look! I think I saw some chickens go by! And a dog!"

"Don't be ridiculous," grumbled Javert, even though he thought he saw the figure of the local greengrocer and his cart of cabbage heads pass out of the corner of his eye. He preferred to leave the sight-seeing to Gavroche while he attempted to further assess the situation. At some point, he acknowledged, the building would be freed of the tornado's winds and would plummet toward the earth. If they were low enough to the ground, there was a slight chance for survival. If they were too high, things were going to end pretty disastrously. But what could they do when that time came? Was there no way to protect themselves from the impact?

He heard Gavroche gasp loudly. "Look, Inspector!"

Javert allowed himself, much to his dismay, to look out the window again. This time he saw a number of fisherman's boats with the fishermen still inside them, and numerous bits of boating equipment and tools. But what Gavroche had seen and was still pointing to was far more disturbing.

A large piece of the floor of the Jondrette flat, with table, chairs, and family, was flying steadily in view at a relatively harmless distance. Two scrawny, wraithlike girls were sitting at the table, folding what looked to be letters of some kind; the notorious couple of the inspector's acquaintance – M. and Mme. Jondrette – were standing around the table arguing with each other. Nothing of what they said or did could be heard, but that didn't stop Gavroche from ducking down behind the window to avoid being seen.

"Can this really be happening?" Javert muttered to himself while he continued to watch. Suddenly, Mme. Jondrette's eyes met his, and as a deep, wrathful gleamed filled them, she gestured her husband with a frying pan to look at Javert. The small man with the face of a drunken rat turned and sneered at the inspector. The girls looked at him, too, but their expressions were blank either from indifference or dullness. Despite the differing expressions, each family member seemed to take the presence of the policeman as some sort of signal, and one by one, they went to the edge of the floor and leapt into the swirling maelstrom. Jondrette jumped first, his pockets stuffed with the letters his daughters had folded and some unidentifiable painting in his hands. Madame was next, still clutching her trusty pan. The girls nearly leapt at the same time, with the reddish-blonde first, and the shorter brunette immediately second. Javert knew they were just ordinary waifs in ragged clothes that hung loosely from their malnourished frames, but just before they disappeared into the column of rubble and fodder, he thought he saw the backs of the girls' blouses expand out behind them in a peculiar way. But they were out of sight instantly, and he thought no more of it.

At that moment, another signficant event was taking place. The building began to tilt and spin a great deal more, and Javert's ears started to clog from the changing pressure.

_This is it. We're falling._ His mind raced as he looked about the room. Gavroche seemed to sense what was coming, too, and he looked to Javert.

"What do we do?" he cried frantically.

Javert looked around. There was an awful lot of furniture. They would be crushed by it at any moment, unless . . .

"Gavroche! Get on the large table! The one in the center! Climb on it now!"

It was a little easier said than done, for the table started sliding across the floor as the inspector and the gamin attempted to board it. Javert managed to leap on first, then quickly grabbed Gavroche by the arm and hauled him up next to him. "Lie on your stomach! No matter what happens, don't fall off!"

"No worries!" answered Gavroche with a smile and a salute. Despite the imminent danger, the boy couldn't help enjoying himself. It may have been the fact that it was dangerous which made him find it so much fun. Javert wanted no chances, however, and for the sake of what he believed to be reasonable precautions, he anchored Gavroche's torso down with a protective arm.

The air whistled and howled outside as they descended. Portraits on the walls rattled and flew up to the ceiling with loud bangs and crashes, the tables and chairs spun and glided wildly, and the panes and sashes of the windows shook and flailed when they got loose of their latches. Javert gripped the edges of the table as hard as he could and pressed his body firmly against the tabletop. He knew to brace himself for one painful landing.

He couldn't predict exactly when they would reach the ground, but there was no mistaking that they had the second wood, brick, and plaster suddenly crunched and broke with unbelievable volume. The legs of the table gave way from the impact, which made Gavroche cry out sharply. 

Dust flew up into the air and hung about for many minutes. Neither body stirred as the deafening sounds of wreckage and destruction died away into empty silence.

After minutes of waiting, the dark head of lawman was slowly lifted. His sharp grey eyes took in the sight. The walls and windows around them were not those of the conference room, but of the main hall the pair had been in mere minutes – or hours – before. The entire second floor had fallen on top of the first.

Javert turned to Gavroche and gently roused him. "Are you all right? Nothing broken?"

"I don't think so," said the urchin carefully, as if afraid a sudden, unexpected pang would seize his small body as soon as the words left his lips. He was relieved to find that none did.

"Good," Javert gruffly replied, now wasting no time in removing his arm from Gavroche's back and pushing himself off the legless table. "We'd better leave before something else decides to break and fall on us. If, that is, we can find the bloody door."

"Is that it?" asked Gavroche, pointing across the room to a set of severely cracked double doors, one of them still barely hanging by its hinges.

Javert cleared his throat. "So it would seem."

Gavroche leapt nimbly from the table and dashed to them. The inspector quickly followed, afraid that any hasty actions might cause the rest of the building to cave in.

"Careful, now, careful! Let me open it."

"I doubt it," the gamin rejoined, "the bottom edges are completely smashed into the ground. Why don't we just climb out a window?"

"They're several feet off the ground, even the ones on the bottom floor."

"But since these doors are part buried in the ground, won't the windows be closer to the ground than before?"

Javert growled quietly. "Fine, but I'll go out first. And whatever you do, stay close to me. Chances are we are in a different part of Paris, probably one of those patches where Patron-Minette goons like to lurk about. So keep a sharp eye, got it?"

"Don't worry, inspector." He was about ready to add something else, but a thought suddenly came to him, and he decided it was best to keep quiet.

"Let's go, then."

All the windows on the first floor had been shuddered, so Javert had his hands full with keeping a watch on Gavroche and wrestling open a pair of shudders that had somehow splintered and wedged against each other. At last, he finally wrenched them loose and kicked through the glass without a flinch. _After all, it is not as if it will be used anymore. _

He climbed onto the sill and looked out. What he saw nearly made him fall backwards, which was averted by shooting out his arms and grabbing the side panes.

"What is it?" asked Gavroche at seeing the motion. "Do you see something strange?"

Javert hesitated before speaking. "That would be an understatement," he finally answered, gesturing for the boy to come to the window and see for himself.

When Gavroche saw what Javert had, his jaw dropped.

It was certain that they were not in Paris. They were not in France, either. There's really not a lot of jungle in France.

--

Heehee, evil cliffhanger! Bwahaha!


End file.
